Her betrothal to Frank had made perfect sense. As her father’s heir, it was expected he would marry her, securing both the title and the family legacy. Even at the age of twelve, Louisa had believed in that future. She had dreamed of the day their youthful bond would blossom into the kind of love their parents had shared. But now, everything felt twisted, broken, as though the past she had clung to no longer made sense. Could this man truly be Frank? Or was it all just a cruel illusion, sent to torment her already shattered heart?
“Then I bid you farewell until tonight, Wellesley.”
The name hit her like a violent gust of wind, knocking the air from her lungs. If the building hadn’t been behind her, she would have collapsed.Wellesley.The title that had been awarded to her cousin before his supposed death.
She watched in stunned silence as Wellesley—Frank—walked toward a waiting carriage and climbed inside. Tears stung her eyes and blurred her vision. Her heart pounded so fiercely that each breath felt like a struggle. He couldn’t be alive… could he? If Frank had survived, what else had been hidden from her? Could her family, too, have escaped that devastating fire?
She had to know. She had to follow him. With trembling hands, she pushed off the wall and began to move, watchingas the carriage rolled away, heading toward the very place where her home once stood. Every step quickened her pulse, a desperate hope rising within her. Could it be possible after all these years? Could the people she had mourned for so long still be alive?
Forgetting her gnawing hunger and the weakness in her limbs, Louisa bolted from the crowd, heading toward the road that led into the countryside. Instinctively, her feet found the path she had known so well as a child, the shortcut through the trees that connected her home to the town. But the thought gnawed at her—he couldn’t possibly be going tothathouse, could he? The home she remembered had burned to the ground six years ago. She had never seen the wreckage with her own eyes.
When Mr. Featherspoon had ripped her away from school, he’d taken her straight to Scotland, denying her any chance of return, and sold her to Macgregor. That dark chapter of her life felt distant now, as though it belonged to someone else. She hadn’t set foot on English soil until a mere fortnight ago, yet here she was, racing toward the shadow of a past she thought had been destroyed. What if everything she’d believed about the fire—about the deaths—had been a lie?
The possibility sent a surge of adrenaline through her, overpowering her exhaustion and hunger. Her legs, though weak, moved with a newfound determination, fueled by the desperate need for answers. Was her home still standing? Had she been wrong all this time? Unanswered questions thudded in her chest alongside her frantic heartbeat, propelling her forward, despite the fears that clawed at her, threatening to drag her down. She had to know the truth, no matter what awaited her.
The farther she ran, the more the sun dipped lower in the sky. The closer she came to the place she’d known as home forthe first thirteen years of her life, the more her throat tightened with emotion. She’d had such happy memories here. It was too painful to remember how much she had back then, only to have nothing now.
Out of breath, she stopped by a bulky tree and fell against the large, chipped trunk. Her chest burned as sharp breaths tore from her throat. Off in the distance, the clip-clop of horses’ hooves pounded on the ground. She stumbled toward the sound. Through the trees, the carriage carrying Wellesley pulled in front of a structure.
She sucked in a quick breath.
The large, gray two-story manor stood before her, untouched by time, exactly as she remembered it. The small flower garden near the wide, two-step porch still bloomed with vibrant colors, as if the years had never passed. The golden knockers on the grand double doors gleamed in the sunlight, polished to perfection, just as they had been in her childhood.
As a young girl, she had often imagined herself as a grand lady of the manor. Servants in burgundy coats and white gloves would open those heavy doors for her, bowing low as she swept inside, dressed in the most exquisite gown. Her faithful puppy, Shadow, would come bounding toward her, tail wagging, showering her with affection and slobbery kisses. And in her fantasy, her perfect suitor—tall, kind, and full of love—would be waiting for her by the hearth, arms open, ready to embrace her with warmth and devotion. It had been a simple, innocent dream, filled with hope and the promise of love. Now, standing before the very home that once held those dreams, reality felt far more complicated.
In seconds, the dream went up in flames and immediately turned ash black. Her dream would never happen now. Not with all she’d been through with Macgregor.
None of this should have happened. Louisa shouldn’t be standing here, lost in dreams of the life she could have had, instead of consumed by the disgust for the life she’d been forced to endure. But here she was, her heart pounding furiously in her chest, the weight of it almost unbearable. The sight of her childhood home, still standing so pristine, tore through her like a knife. The flood of memories—the innocence, the hope—was overwhelming, a stark contrast to the harsh reality she now faced. Seeing this place, untouched by the devastation she had lived through, felt like it might break her all over again.
Stopping near another tree, she placed her cold, clammy hand to her throat as she glanced around the grove. Evening’s shadows play with her tear-blurred vision, making her think she’d been followed. She listened for the sounds of crunching leaves and broken twigs, but all that surrounded her was her own heavy breathing.
Why had Featherspoon told her she hadn’t a shilling to her name when the grand house standing before her suggested otherwise? At the time, she had no reason to doubt Eliza’s uncle, trusting him in her grief and confusion. She’d stayed with Featherspoon for only a few short weeks before being handed over to Macgregor’s so-calledcare.
His assistance had been anything but. She had been sent to hell. The children in Macgregor’s home had mocked her, refusing to believe she had once been born into a life of privilege. They called her names and taunted her relentlessly, shattering what little remained of her identity. It hadn’t taken long for Louisa to understand—lying was her only means of survival. The truth about her past had become a distant, dangerous secret, buried beneath the layers of deception she had built to protect herself from the cruelty of the world Macgregor had thrust her into.
Taking a deep breath, Louisa glanced around the thicket, trying to ground herself in the present. The frogs croaked by the nearby pond, and crickets filled the night with their steady song, but her heart was heavy, twisted with the weight of unanswered questions. None of it made sense. Why would Eliza’s uncle, a man she had trusted in her darkest hour, lie to her? What could he possibly have gained by hiding the truth?
She felt as if she were standing on the edge of a cliff, with only half the puzzle in her hands, the crucial piece still missing. Without it, everything remained a confusing blur, and the ache of not knowing gnawed at her, pulling sobs from the deepest part of her soul. Something was being kept from her—something vital—and until she uncovered it, she could never truly understand the life that had been stolen from her.
As Frank disappeared inside, Louisa crept closer to the house, her heart racing with a mix of fear and hope. She kept low, moving carefully, every step deliberate as she navigated the familiar flower garden—her mother’s pride and joy. The sight of the blooms brought a lump to her throat, and before she could stop them, tears slipped down her cheeks. For the first time in years, a fragile hope stirred in her chest. Could it be possible? Could her parents still be alive? She had dreamed of being in their comforting arms again, hearing their familiar voices soothe away the pain of the past.
Peeking through the window, she spotted Frank standing in the hallway, his face twisted in a scowl, his voice raised in a heated argument with someone inside the sitting room. Louisa couldn’t make out whom he was speaking to, but it hardly mattered. All she wanted—more than anything—was to see the two people she had longed for every single day since that awful day. Her parents. If there was even the slightest chance they were still here, she had to know.
“You. Scamp! Get out of here!”
Someone yelled behind her as a pointy object poked into her back, making her jump. She swung around. A gardener held a shovel as loathing glinted in his old eyes. She didn’t remember him as a child.
Her heart dropped. “No, please. I—”
“Leave now or I’ll call the constable.”
“You don’t understand,” she pleaded in frustration.
The gardener signaled to two burly men standing behind him, both dressed in rough, workmanlike clothing. Louisa’s heart sank—she didn’t recognize either of them, and they certainly hadn’t worked for her family when her parents were alive. Before she could utter a word of explanation, the two men seized her by the arms, their grip unyielding as they dragged her toward the main gate.
Panic surged through her, her mind racing with protests, but the words died in her throat. She struggled against them, but they were too strong, and all she could do was watch as the house—the last connection to her past—faded farther from her reach.
She squirmed as their beefy fingers dug into her arms. “I demand you release me!”
